O Death, Death, He is come

O Death, Death, He is come.
O grounds of Hell make room.
Who came from further than the stars
Now comes as low beneath.
Thy ribbed ports, O Death
Make wide; and Thou, O Lord of Sin,
Lay open thine estates.
Lift up your heads, O Gates;┬░
Be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors
The King of Glory will come in.
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.